


Peccato

by A_Kid_Named_Hiro



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Other, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 14:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12134145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Kid_Named_Hiro/pseuds/A_Kid_Named_Hiro





	Peccato

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rubix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubix/gifts).



There would be rain tonight. 

He can smell it in the air. Feel it nestled deep within the confines of his bones. Somedays, Yamamoto thinks he is made of nothing but blood and instinct.

He has always been able to tell when a storm is coming. 

Inside, he is fever-hot. 

Even next to a cracked window, in a hideout with an open doorway, the air is a trapped, aimless thing, recycled. 

It weighs upon him, thick and heavy. Cloaks him in the musk of sweat, the glorious stench of death and blood. 

Yamamoto inhales; slow, savoring. Gratefully gulps coppered air into his lungs. His heart beats a furious song against his ribcage. 

_Blood._

It is everywhere. His face. His neck. All over his suit. His designer shoes.

He's got his back pressed against the wall. The button of his dress slacks lies unfastened. The zipper, unfurled. His cock, a heavy, throbbing thing in his hand. 

And before him, the scattered remains of rapidly cooling corpses. Weapons discarded, broken and useless as their masters. Blood sighs out from bodies, pools on the floor. Yamamoto feels electric heat skittering up his spine, dancing beneath his flesh at the sight.

The rhythm of his breaths. The rustle of his clothes against the wall. The sound of his fist sliding along his cock. They are too loud in this charged silence.

His sword remains propped against the wall by his side. Its blade is adorned with a beautiful, dark crimson.

Yamamoto's breath hitches, recalling the feel of his callused grip around the hilt of his sword. 

He pictures… _them._

Eyes that dim. Faces that twist in agony. Muscles that tense in fear. Limbs contorted at unnatural angles. Bodies that go slack with ebbing life. 

The sound his sword makes when it pierces flesh and cartilage and bone.

Yamamoto watches it all, an endless replay of carnage. _Art,_ of his making.

Heat gathers in his gut. Rises up and up, this twisting, scorching thing that makes his hand twist blessedly tight around his cock. Breath is a damning thing. It spills out of him in curses hissed through clenched teeth. 

When Yamamoto comes, it is with eyes wide open.


End file.
